Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  As they came to a vacant seat and moved towards it, Liam’s eyes followed the passage of a legless man in a wheelchair, and suddenly, all his euphoria disappeared.

  ‘Deafness isn’t much to complain about, though, is it? Here I am intact – with a couple of months’ peace ahead of me.’ He looked at her intently. ‘What more could I ask?’

  ‘What more indeed,’ she murmured. There were men hobbling on crutches, others with bandaged heads and arms. Nevertheless, by the smiles and light voices, it seemed everyone that day was conscious of the joy of being alive.

  She pressed his hand. ‘You’ve been so lucky.’

  ‘I know.’

  He would have kept hold of her hand, but she withdrew it, too conscious of his closeness, his adult masculinity, to be entirely at ease. In bed the other day, like the boys on her ward, it had been easy to relegate him to the role of patient; seeing him fully dressed changed her perspective. In her memory he had remained a boy; she had not allowed for those missing years, nor the maturity induced by years of war.

  Dark shadows beneath his eyes told their own tale. Her professional glance discerned pallor beneath that weather-beaten skin, a paring of the flesh which lent the lines of nose and cheek and jaw a severity they had not possessed before. That boyish softness was now entirely gone. He was very much his own man, she thought, and only he knew what experience had shaped his thinking.

  For a while they sat in companionable silence, but he kept glancing at her, frowning a little and smiling, as though something about her intrigued him. She was on the point of asking what it was, when he said: ‘You don’t seem to have changed a bit. Seeing you out of uniform reminds me of how you looked the last time we met — do you know it’s more than three years ago?’ He smiled. ‘It seems like yesterday.’

  Surprised, because her own thoughts had been concerned with change and the passage of time, Georgina shook her head. Half-tempted to make some flippant remark about how old she felt, she discarded it and said gently that a lot had happened in the interim.

  That made him frown. ‘Yes, I know.’ A moment later, he said: ‘But I can’t quite believe it. It seems so unreal.’ His eyes, shadowed, moved away from her, ranging beyond the gardens to a place of his own imagining. ‘I don’t think I know what reality is any more.’

  Alerted by that change in tone, she searched his face and saw the fear within. She knew it well but in him it frightened her. She bit her lips and clasped her fingers tight, fighting the urge to drag him back from whatever brink of horror claimed him.

  But with a deep breath he brought himself back. ‘I can’t believe I’m here with you,’ he said softly, and with a gesture that encompassed the neatly-trimmed lawns, the tennis courts and shrubberies, he added: ‘It seems no more than a dream...’

  She placed her hand in his, and felt warm dry fingers close over hers. ‘I’m real enough – does that help?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s strange, though. From here the war seems so far away. I find myself wondering whether it really happened – if it’s still going on. And that’s the thing,’ he added, turning to her, ‘I can’t believe it’s going on without me...’

  Georgina swallowed hard. ‘It does, I’m afraid.’

  With a bitter smile he turned away. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds like vanity.’

  ‘No. It’s a very common feeling. It goes, after a while.’

  He said nothing to that, but she saw his eyes were suddenly brimming. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry. I was so happy to see you...’

  Hurt for him, aware that his whole body was trembling, Georgina clasped his arm and tried to find the right words to comfort him. She thought perhaps it was time to be professional, and wished she had worn her uniform after all.

  ‘I’m a nurse, Liam,’ she reminded him, ‘as well as your — your friend.’ But there was a tight constriction in her throat and it was so hard to express cool detachment when all she wanted to do was hold him in her arms and let him weep. Clearing her throat, she said: ‘Give it time. You’re still not well – at least not as well as you think you are. And you’re still suffering from reaction...

  ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of – it happens to everyone – you must have seen it yourself on the battlefield. The bravest suffer most when the danger is past.’ Unsure whether he was really listening, she tightened her grip and gave his arm a little shake. ‘But you will get over it. You will. It just takes time.’

  Pausing, softening her voice, she added: ‘And don’t think you have to apologize – I’ve seen enough, believe me, to know something of what you’re going through. It’s a little like grief, coming in waves – fine one minute, in tears the next.’

  The swings in mood could be alarming, Georgina knew that; what he needed was her reassurance. Stroking his hand, she said: ‘And don’t try too hard to bottle things up. Whatever you want to say, say it – I’m not likely to be shocked, Liam, I promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly, not looking at her, ‘I appreciate it. But you see, I don’t want to hurt you.’

  What should have been the nurse’s bright, confident answer – you won’t hurt me – was in this case neither appropriate nor true. She wanted to say, your pain is my pain, and for you I’d suffer willingly, but that, too, was out of place. In the end she said softly: ‘I think it’s more important that you tell me, than that you worry about how I feel.’

  As he turned to look at her, she was rewarded by the faintest curve of his lips; he was regaining his equilibrium, for the moment, at least. With a little sigh she patted his arm and judged that it was time to change the subject. ‘Anyway, tell me about Australia. That’s something you didn’t mention in your letters to me. Was it all you expected it to be?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he murmured, and the warmth of his response set her wondering, as it had three years before, how many young women had longed to see him smile for them. But he seemed charmingly unaware of his own appeal as he talked, describing the young, growing city that was Melbourne, and the richness of the country beyond. His words painted a vivid picture of Victoria’s hills and forests, exotic birds and animals, and revealed a deep admiration for the people. Georgina wondered — could not help wondering – whether there was one special person amongst them.

  ‘And when the war’s over,’ she said slowly, ‘will you go back?’

  His answer seemed a long time coming. Like a sudden shadow, pain passed over him. He shifted position, drawing slightly away from her. ‘I don’t know. I’d like to, yes.’ His tone had an edge to it, suddenly, and his eyes were distant. ‘When the war’s over... We keep saying that, you know. We all say it. Or we did. But nobody quite believes it any more. You look back, and war is all you can remember – the blokes talk about Gallipoli as though it was ancient history – and you try to look ahead, but all you can see is more of it. And no matter what you do, how hard you fight, how many men you lose, that’s all there is ahead of you.’

  Georgina winced. ‘It will be over, one day. We have to believe in that.’ But she heard the desperation in her own voice, and wished she had never mentioned Australia.

  ‘I’m sure it will – one day. The question is, will we be there to see it?’

  It was cynically said, and, searching his pockets for cigarettes, Liam did not notice the pain it caused. A moment later, finding them, he said: ‘If I come through it, yes, I’d like to go back. It’s a wonderful country – paradise. You’d love it,’ he added with a quick glance into her eyes as the match flared into life. He cupped broad fingers round the flame, drew deeply, and released a cloud of blue smoke.

  A moment later, with a soft smile for her, he said: ‘And you, Georgina – what will you do when the war’s over? Will you go on nursing, or what?’

  ‘What else is there?’ The words came out bleakly, unexpectedly, and frightened her a little. She had never before been aware of a lack of conviction, but it seemed to be there, nevertheless. She wondered whether Liam had released it,
with his talk of that clean, new land.

  Catching the bleakness, he shot her a quizzical glance. When he spoke, his words had the air of being carefully chosen. ‘You’ve never thought of marriage, then?’

  The question was so unexpected, the idea so unlikely, that she was torn between laughter and astonishment; but something in his tone brought colour to her cheeks. She had to look away.

  ‘Marriage?’ she repeated, laughing and shaking her head. ‘No, never.’

  He was surprised. ‘Seriously?’

  Glancing up, she saw disbelief in his eyes. ‘Seriously – it’s always been out of the question.’

  He doesn’t know, she thought; or has never considered it. But why should he? His life and experience did not encompass madness. But suddenly it struck Georgina that the truth of her own background might shed light for Liam on so much more.

  She stood up. ‘Shall we walk a little way? Do you feel up to it?’

  As they strolled across the lawns, skirting tennis courts where a couple of desultory games were being played, Liam slipped off the jacket of his blue hospital uniform and loosened his tie. In the warm sun Georgina removed her gloves and hat, aware as she did so of a sense of freedom, and a lifting of the oppression brought on by thoughts of her mother. It was not a subject she ever discussed, but somehow, being with Liam made things easier. All at once she wanted to tell him about the past and a childhood that was so inextricably involved with his own.

  They had talked about Charlotte Duncannon that last evening, when he had insisted on coming to meet her at the Retreat, so he knew that she had died in a similar place in Ireland. What he did not know was the history of that illness, its insidious progress down the years. Georgina felt instinctively that Liam’s antipathy to her father might be alleviated to some extent if he knew what Robert Duncannon had suffered because of it.

  Putting together what she had gleaned over the years from various relatives, and adding her own professional knowledge, Georgina described her mother from adolescence to grave. As a girl Charlotte had seen her parents murdered in Ulster, been adopted by her uncle’s family in Dublin, and introduced into society at the age of eighteen. Georgina described a beautiful young woman whose aloof, mysterious personality had attracted her father from the start.

  ‘Much to his surprise,’ she went on with a smile, ‘Daddy’s suit was favoured. I gather the wedding happened so quickly, even he thought it was rushed!

  ‘But not until after they were married did he start to understand why.’ She paused for a moment, to explain that her father almost never spoke of his marriage, that most of her information had come from his elder sister, Letty.

  ‘My mother’s behaviour became downright odd, even bizarre at times. She heard voices and conversed with people who weren’t there. By the time she was expecting me, she’d become so unpredictable that Daddy was afraid to leave her alone. He was due to go to England with his regiment, but he was so afraid of what might happen, he took her to White Leigh instead, to be cared for by my aunt and uncle.

  ‘Unfortunately, after I was born, my mother became much worse. She became violent and unpredictable. I gather one of her most obsessive delusions was that my father was the spawn of the devil, and that it was her duty to kill him.’

  Glancing sideways at Liam, she saw him start. ‘It can’t have been easy to be on the receiving end of all that hatred, especially when he cared so much.

  ‘And he did care, Liam, I’m not just saying that. He always did his best for her, and he was determined to keep her out of an asylum. He didn’t want her abused and ill-treated, so he insisted on her staying at White Leigh. But he was away most of the time, so that was hard on the family...’

  She sighed, remembering those days more by repute than reality. Nevertheless, one incident did stand out and she forced herself to relate it to Liam.

  ‘It was Christmas Day. I was three years old. We came back from church to find the servants in uproar. I escaped from my aunt and raced upstairs to find Daddy. He was in his room – sprawled across the bed and covered in blood.

  ‘I thought he was dead. I screamed and screamed, and they tore me away, shutting me up, alone in the nursery. I had nightmares for years after that.’

  As she shuddered, Liam slipped an arm around her shoulders and for a moment held her close to his side. Muttering something derogatory about the wisdom of adults, he said: ‘She’d attacked him, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’d gone to see her while we were out, and she went for him with a pair of scissors. He wasn’t badly hurt, as it turned out, just bleeding profusely and in a state of shock – but as I say, I thought he was dead.’

  She paused, glancing sideways, before going on to tell Liam that sometime after that incident her father had met Louisa, and when he returned to Ireland with his regiment, persuaded her to accompany him. ‘It was the beginning,’ Georgina said briefly, ‘of three very happy years. I always think of those years as my childhood.’

  She waited for Liam to take her up on that, to ask questions about that time, about when he was born and the early years they had spent together as brother and sister; but he did not. Silent for a while, he went back to the subject of her mother. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he said slowly, ‘is why your mother agreed to marry him, if she hated him so much.’

  Georgina sighed. ‘I shouldn’t imagine she did hate him, not to begin with. But I’m not saying she loved him, either. I’ve discovered since that people like that are very strange, often devoid of ordinary human affections, totally wrapped up in themselves. Things happen around them, and half the time they don’t seem to notice.

  ‘How my mother took to being married, I’ve no idea, but she couldn’t ignore childbirth, could she, poor woman?’ Half to herself, Georgina murmured, ‘She must have been terrified, wondering what was happening to her. Perhaps she blamed him for that...’

  Her own birth, and the effects of it, ever since she had been old enough to understand, had never ceased to horrify Georgina. That she had gained life at such an expense, was a hugely sobering thought. She knew, but did not say, that after giving birth, Charlotte Duncannon had tried to kill herself. Had her mother died then, Georgina felt it would have been better, more just, easier to bear. But to know that she had lived on, suffering in her insanity, bringing constant anguish to so many other lives — including her own and Liam’s – was a hard cross to carry. Nor had it ended with Charlotte’s death. Within her, Georgina carried the seeds of her mother’s insanity. Or that was how it felt. Seeds which might never come to fruition in her own life, but which might be carried on into her children’s lives, and the lives of their children after that. Like fair hair, or blue eyes, or a birthmark on the hip.

  If she ever married.

  She never would, of course. That decision had been taken many years ago, before men as potential husbands had entered her awareness. And having taken the decision, she had cut herself off emotionally, halting any advance before it became necessary to explain herself. How odd that she should be faced with explaining it now, and to Liam.

  ‘So you see,’ she went on, matter-of-factly, ‘that I could never consider marriage. Once upon a time I thought I might end up like that myself.’ She gave a kind of laugh, as though the matter was one for joking, but it was the only way not to shudder. ‘However, it seems unlikely now. After all I’ve seen of this war, Liam, I’m sure that if I was likely to lose my reason, I’d have lost it already.

  ‘But I might pass it on, you see. If I married and had children,’ she repeated quietly, not laughing now, ‘I might pass it on...’

  He stopped suddenly and turned towards her; and when she looked up at him, his face was taut and hard with suppressed emotion. All the diffidence was gone. She thought he was about to speak, to utter some fierce denial, but he raised his hand to cup her face, and bent to kiss her forehead. It was a warm, firm kiss, not at all lover-like, yet it expressed so absolutely his love and compassion, Georgina felt her own heart l
eap in response. She was at once humbled and exalted, feeling like a child in the presence of some tremendous wisdom, a warmth that encompassed her and held her safe. She could have clung to him and wept.

  They had walked on a small distance when he said tersely: ‘I didn’t know. I remember you telling me about your mother, but I never realized — I mean, that side of things never occurred to me. I am sorry.’

  She tried to make light of it, and found herself almost stammering. ‘Don’t be. I mean, well, it’s one of those things, isn’t it? Unfortunate, but one accepts it – that’s the way things are, after all...’

  ‘But is it? Do you know for certain that the illness is inherited?’

  ‘It hasn’t been proved, if that’s what you mean. But I feel it. I know it’s there.’ Confused in the face of his intensity, she felt herself reduced to emotion rather than fact. ‘I can’t explain,’ she finished lamely, ‘I just know it and it frightens me.’

  He regained her hand, and she was aware of its hard dryness, the callouses on the palm, and a warmth flooding between them. It seemed to take away all the pain. Instead of arguing, he asked bluntly: ‘So you’ve never been in love? Never wanted to marry?’

  ‘No, never. It was always – well, something I avoided.’

  ‘I don’t think people choose to fall in love,’ he remarked, and something in his expression as he looked at her made Georgina feel very gauche, very vulnerable. Too conscious of his hands and his smile and that tingling, spreading warmth, she eased herself away, suggesting a halt.

  On the far side of the trees, where it was sheltered and sunny, he sat down, spreading his jacket for her on the grass. Kneeling beside him, she remembered, belatedly, the little gifts she had brought, and as he opened the wrapping, tracing the trademark of palm trees with his finger, she saw him smile with wondering pleasure. He leaned back, stretching himself full-length on the grass, holding up the little packets before him.